


Paw-Pad Playmates

by threewalls



Series: Paw-Pad Playmates [1]
Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Collars, F/M, Furry, Lolicon, Puppy Play, humiliation (private)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Presea lifts the furred elbow-length gloves from the box, the furred stockings, the headband with ears. For the society, the Lezareno group will produce items in three sizes, five fashion colours and three neutrals. Presea's set is a special order, measurements taken from those Regal asked for in his last letter. He's pleased the dye match was exact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paw-Pad Playmates

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Are You Game: Tales of Symphonia, Presea/Regal: furries - _the Paw Pad Appreciation Society_.  
> Beta by lynndyre.
> 
> The story takes place six months post-DotNW setting, but includes spoilers only for Regal and Presea's back story from ToS1.

"Miss Presea to see you," George announces.

"Please send her in."

Regal shuffles his papers away into a desk drawer, so that he is ready for Presea before she enters the room. She looks well.

Regal is pleased to see her. Too pleased, perhaps, for George lingers by the elevator doors until Regal explicitly dismisses him. George's concern is well-meant, but unnecessary. Alone with Presea, Regal takes care to observe all the proprietaries, the secure, solid distance of his desk between them at all times.

Her present, personally wrapped and beribboned, has sat on the corner of his desk all day. Presea looks at the bow for several moments, before carefully loosening the knot via several precise pulls. She slides her fingers under the folds of the wrapping, unfolding each fold without tearing the paper.

"You can see how far we've come from the first prototype."

Presea nods. Her input has been integral at all stages of the design process.

Presea lifts the furred elbow-length gloves from the box, the furred stockings, the headband with ears. For the society, the Lezareno group will produce items in three sizes, five fashion colours and three neutrals. Presea's set is a special order, measurements taken from those he asked for in his last letter. He's pleased the dye match was exact.

Presea removes her leather travelling gloves to touch the furred set, stroking over the fur with her fingertips and pressing on the paw pads, with every sign of satisfied interest that Regal might expect of her. ("Poke. Poke.") But she does not pick them up.

"Springy," Presea says. Her voice is deeper than he expects.

"Perhaps you would like to try them on?" Regal had hoped the gloves would fit, though Presea always grows so much between her visits.

"I like touching pawpads," she says, which is neither 'no', nor 'yes'. "I thought that you would have some as well."

"I do," Regal admits. His are appropriately periwinkle-dyed and bespoke measured on a far broader scale than hers. They are in the bottom drawer of his desk.

"Will you wear them for me?"

Regal stands to remove his jacket, feeling heated for no good reason. He removes his cuff-links and rolls up his sleeves. Regal rubs his hands together briskly several times before rolling on the gloves.

"You see that the fabric conducts body heat. The Lezareno Group takes its sponsorship of the Paw-Pad Playmate Society extremely seriously."

Regal sits and holds his paws together out across the desk for Presea, paw-pads facing up. She touches his hands, and Regal's face heats anew. Stroking the back of his palms, her fingers curving around his wrists, and of course, pressing against his paw-pads, her touch is a simple pleasure and he is greedy. Though Regal's arms begin to ache from holding his wrists up, he waits for the signal that she would like to stop.

"Poke. Poke. Poke."

Presea has a beautiful smile.

"These gloves are excellent, Regal. Can you show me the socks?"

Regal stands immediately in answer to her request, but then considers. The least awkward way to demonstrate the paw-pad stockings would require him to sit on his hands and knees on the floor. Regal is certain that his self-possession is up to the task.

Which leaves only the more pragmatic problem of his trousers. The paw-pad stockings may have been designed to stretch over boots, but Regal's tailored trousers were not designed with such adventures in mind.

"Perhaps I could change into something a little more suitable," Regal says, wincing at how euphemistic that sounds.

"Do you want to change into your prison uniform?" Presea says. "You keep it in your desk, don't you?"

It is true that those trousers are looser, with particularly more give at the knee.

"If that would be all right with you?"

Regal takes the uniform, and the paw-pad stockings, into his private elevator and the doors glide shut behind him. The usual process of stripping and re-clothing himself has a strange charge to it, knowing that Presea waits for him on the other side of the doors.

Regal buckles his belts and laces up his sleeves with practiced efficiency, before pulling on the furred paw-pad stockings and then the gloves. He rubs his paws together, feeling the rasp of his paw-pads on his fur.

As president of the Lezareno Group, Regal takes pride in serving the many and varied needs of his company's worldwide customer base, but he cannot deny that the pleasure he has taken in overseeing this particular product is personal. At times, to his shame, frustratingly personal. Beyond his appreciation of well-crafted paw-pad merchandise, Regal has come to realise how strongly he wants to give Presea anything she asks of him. Placing his palms against the cool metal of the elevator doors, Regal shuts his eyes and takes several, slow measured breaths. He will not trouble Presea with his enthusiasm.

Regal presses the elevator button to open the doors.

"I brought you a present as well," Presea says. "Doggies don't wear hand-cuffs."

Regal cannot look away from what she holds in her small hands: a thick leather collar, black and studded with silver, connected to lead of metal chain looped across her other hand. Regal's head feels suddenly too heavy, his pulse a torrent in his ears.

"You need a thick chain for a big doggie," she says, and then, tilts her head. "Have I misunderstood?"

"No, Presea, I would be honoured to be-- your doggie," Regal answers. He looks at the floor and then raises his sight only as far as her bright blue eyes.

"Come here," she says. "Doggies walk on four legs."

Regal feels such relief to sink to his hands and knees, to crawl across the floor of his presidential office to Presea's boots. He looks at them, but does not touch. Regal waits.

Though she kneels, Presea does not immediately place the collar on his neck, but touches his furred forearms and then his calves. Regal can see her over his shoulder only with difficulty, but he can feel each of her touches even through the fur of the stockings and the fabric of his trousers.

"Roll over."

Regal lies on his back, all four paws raised for her perusal. He looks at the far wall between his spread feet, not her face. He is not used to seeing Presea so close, and he does not think his composure would thank him for looking. She moves around him on the floor, examining each limb's set of paw-pads in turn. It is a struggle to remain still and calm underneath her petting hands, and demanding to balance as he is, a man of his size with both hands and feet in the air, but the very difficulty inspires Regal to persevere as he is, for her, as long as Presea requires.

But then, suddenly, Presea takes hold of the front paw closest to her and raises it above the level of Regal's head, as she bends her head forward over him. Regal feels the tickling caress of her hair first, and then a smooth, warm touch that can only be the press of her cheek, skin to skin, where his uniform bares his abdomen above the low-slung waistband of his trousers.

"You're furry here, too," Presea says, her breath whispering on his skin.

The noise Regal makes is shameful.

Presea lifts her head, catching his eyes and holding them. One of her hands pets the very space of skin already sensitised by the touch of her face, the other strokes his head. It takes all Regal's self-control not to move with that rhythmic pressure.

"I like touching you, Regal. When I can feel your fur, I know that I am here right now. I like being here with you."

Presea is smiling at him. Regal tries to speak, but his throat only coughs. His nipples are taut beneath the rough weave cotton of his shirt, and the flush of his face extends nearly so far.

"Do you have ears?"

"Yes. In my desk."

Direct factual questions are easier; direct commands, easier still.

"Go get them."

Regal rolls onto his side, and then raises himself up on hands and knees. He crawls quickly across the room for his desk, ducking behind. He bites around the drawer handle, an awkward shape in his mouth, and drags out the drawer by shuffling backwards in the limited space behind his desk. He gets his face into the drawer and bites the headband.

Presea has followed him behind the desk, and she has been watching him. Regal gives up the headband into her hand, her bare hand, aware of his saliva soaking into the fur. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck.

"I am sorry, Presea." Regal cannot meet her eyes.

"You did what I said. You're a good doggie."

"I want to be."

Presea touches his head, taking hold of his chin and drawing it up, and up. Regal thinks of resisting for only a moment, and allows her hand to guide him up to stand on his knees. His prison trousers are loose, but not loose enough to shield the nature of his appreciation from her.

"What you must think of me. I am sorry."

"Regal, look at me."

Regal stands on his knees, his back held straight, but he has to look _up_ to look at Presea's eyes. It helps a little that he does have to look up, and even more that she seems neither disgusted nor disappointed. But he cannot decipher her expression. Regal waits.

"I think we have confused each other. We should talk more before we keep playing."

"I am sorry for any distress that my condition causes you. A man of my age entranced by a girl of yours..."

"You know that I am older than I look," Presea says, eyes clear and direct.

"Yes." Comparisons are unavoidable. Alicia in his memories looked older, but never expressed herself so clearly. Presea is the older sister.

"Do you want to stop?"

"If you would, I would make no objection."

"Do _you_ want to stop playing?"

"No." Regal burns with embarrassment, and that only intensifies his discomforted arousal.

Presea pets Regal's hair, slow, heavy strokes. She holds the black leather collar in her other hand.

"After we helped Emil and Marta, you asked me about making furry gloves for the Paw Pad Playmate Society. It made me think. About how you would look with paw-pads. I liked that thought."

The curves of Presea's cheeks have shaded pink. Regal allows himself to look, and to hope.

"The years I have lost are gone forever. These feelings are new to me, but they are mine. I want to explore them. With you. I want to touch your paw-pads, and other places. I want to play with you, Regal. I bought you a dog collar and a leash, because I want you to enjoy being a doggie with me. Because I want you to be my doggie."

Sex-play is not what Regal would have expected Presea to want of him. Not because she is too young, but because he expected her to find him too old. Or she would find his interest in her or the particular quality of his interest in paw-pads discomforting. But Presea does want him. She does enjoy paw-pads as he does.

"But that's what I want," Presea says. "Do you want to be my doggie tonight? To let me touch you. To do what I tell you. Is that what you want, Regal?"

Regal wants to please her.

"Please."

Presea smiles at him.

"Does my doggie know how to beg?"

Regal holds up his paws in front of his chest.

"Good doggie."

Presea slips the ears onto his head. When they are settled, she draws the long fall of Regal's hair over his far shoulder, baring his neck. Regal watches Presea unbuckle the collar, willing himself calm despite the racing of his blood. It must be new. Regal can smell the tang of the leather.

"Look down. Eye-level."

She fits the collar snugly, tight but not painful, and the weight of the chain pulls his head towards her hand at the end of the lead.

"Thank you," Regal says.

Presea raises her fingers touch Regal's mouth; he licks their tips. Presea pushes, and Regal opens his mouth for her, swallows around her fingers, curling his tongue to cradle them. Presea moves her fingers in and out of his mouth, watching Regal, watching her. He cannot look away. Regal whimpers.

"You are a good doggie," Presea says.

She wipes her wet fingers on the side of Regal's face. Her fingers card through Regal's thick hair at his nape, three strokes and then suddenly a tight grip through the slim gap between the collar and his neck. Presea pulls his face forward into the lap of her dress.

Perhaps only because of the ears, the position, the pawpads, but Regal can smell the unmistakable scent of Presea's pleasure through the body-warm fabric of her clothes.

"_My_ good doggie," Presea says.

Regal breathes, his face hot, his arms beginning to ache, and he feels his shoulders, his back, his belly all relax, breath by breath, as Presea holds him there.

The elevator bell chimes.

"Mm-Master Regal?"

Regal cannot see, but he can hear. All the words buzzing in Regal's mind are excuses and guilt-- that she is the older sister, what if he can't protect her, if George thinks Presea needs protecting from Regal-- and he does not know what Presea wants.

"Stay," Presea says, and the world quietens, narrowing to the pressure of her fingers through Regal's collar. "I am taking Regal for a walk on the Sky Terrace. Can we have dinner served in an hour?"

"Uh. Yes, Miss Presea. I'll let the kitchens know."

Presea's grip allows Regal no movement until the elevator doors swish close on George once more.

"Are you all right?"

Regal can only look at her. His hands are slick with cold sweat.

"You don't need to talk. You're a doggie right now. I will talk with George later. We're going for a walk now."

Regal is so thankful for the reprieve, for the weight of the chain that draws him forward into the elevator. Regal leans his head against the solid security of Presea's legs. He pushes up into the hand she settles behind his ears.

"Good doggie-Regal," Presea says, petting his hair, scratching his scalp, and Regal allows himself to feel the pleasure running through him.

\---

MC  
22/3/10

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Presea is 30 in this story: due to the events prior to ToS 1 that resulted in her growth being 'frozen' for 16 years, she appears to be 14 years old.


End file.
